Ambohimanga dates from the 16th century and developed into the capital city in the 18th century. The walled city, with stone gates, three palaces, cemeteries and holy places, combines Malagasy and European architectural styles.
Madagascar: Ranomafana National Park – Into the Jungle
Bamboo, Bridges and Bushwhacking: A Morning in Ranomafana National Park
I am not, by nature, a morning person. Sixty years on this earth have taught me that anything requiring me to be vertical before seven o’clock had better be worth it, and as it turned out, this one was. The lemurs of Ranomafana, apparently, keep sensible hours and do their most interesting business before the day heats up, so after the sort of coffee that makes you nostalgic for a proper cup of Yorkshire Tea, I trudged down the street to the entrance of Ranomafana National Park with my wife, feeling every one of my years.
Even at that hour, little knots of people were already gathering, sorting out boots and cameras and looking terribly keen, the way people do before a walk they haven’t yet realised is going to hurt. I should say straight away that this was nothing like the great tourist scrums of the Masai Mara or the Serengeti, where you can find yourself sharing a lion sighting with forty other Land Cruisers and their occupants, all elbowing for the same photograph. Ranomafana gets comparatively few visitors, and once you’re swallowed up by the forest, you might go the best part of a morning without seeing another soul. Which, frankly, suited me down to the ground.
We were assigned two guides for the day, a system I hadn’t quite bargained for. One, a chap called Harry, would stay glued to us the entire time, while the other, Andry, would head off ahead into the forest like a sort of lemur scout, radioing back whenever he found something worth seeing. I rather liked this arrangement. It meant somebody else was doing the hard thinking while I concentrated on not falling over.
🌳 A Very Brief History of a Very Steamy Place
Before I get onto the falling over, a word or two about where we actually were, because Ranomafana deserves rather more than a passing mention. It sits in southeastern Madagascar and is generally reckoned to be one of the best places in the entire country to see lemurs in the wild, which is no small claim given that lemurs are, more or less, Madagascar’s entire tourist industry rolled into one furry, wide-eyed package.
The park itself is a relative youngster as these things go, only established in 1991, though the rainforest it protects is very much older than that. It was designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site as part of the “Rainforests of the Atsinanana” listing, a fact I only remembered because it sounded so splendidly exotic when Harry said it, and covers a whopping 161 square miles of dense, tangled, dripping forest. The name itself, Ranomafana, means “hot water” in Malagasy, a nod to the thermal springs found nearby, though I can report that nothing about our morning felt remotely like a spa treatment.
What really put Ranomafana on the map, scientifically speaking, was the American primatologist Dr Patricia Wright, who in 1986 stumbled upon a creature nobody had documented before: the golden bamboo lemur. It’s the sort of discovery that doesn’t happen very often any more, a genuinely new species turning up in a forest that people had, in fairness, been walking through for generations. Her find was significant enough that it helped push the Madagascar government to protect the area, and the park now houses one of the country’s most respected research stations, buzzing with scientists from all over the world poking about in the undergrowth with notebooks and considerably more patience than me.
In total, the forest here is home to some twelve species of lemur, including that golden bamboo lemur, the endearingly odd aye-aye, the Milne-Edwards’ sifaka, and the greater bamboo lemur, all living alongside chameleons, frogs and orchids in numbers that would make a botanist weep with joy. I am not a botanist. I mostly just tried not to trip over any of it.
🦥 First Sighting: The One in the Tree You Can’t Quite See
Eventually, after what felt like a reasonable trek but was probably about twenty minutes, we came to a stop where a grey bamboo lemur, also rather grandly known as the eastern lesser bamboo lemur, was apparently hiding in a tree directly above us. I say “apparently” because spotting it required a level of visual acuity I gave up expecting from myself around the time I needed reading glasses for the pub menu.
This, I should explain, is nothing like gorilla trekking. When we went to see the mountain gorillas in Uganda, the great beasts more or less sit there in a clearing, sighing heavily and scratching themselves, entirely unbothered by an audience of camera-wielding tourists. Lemurs, by contrast, are small, quick and extremely well camouflaged, and the Ranomafana rainforest does them the enormous favour of being thick with leaves in roughly forty shades of green, every one of which seems designed specifically to hide a lemur from a short-sighted Englishman.
With a bit of contorting that would have impressed a Pilates instructor, craning my neck at an angle my chiropractor would not have approved of, I did eventually get a decent look at the thing. Getting a photograph of it, however, was another matter entirely, and I gave up after several blurry attempts that could equally have been a lemur or a slightly furry smudge on my lens.
🌉 Downhill First, Which Should Have Been My First Clue
The opening stretch of the trail lulled us into a false sense of security, being a wide, comfortable, gravel path that led gently downhill and across a sturdy-looking bridge over the Ranomafana River. I remember thinking, rather smugly, that this trekking business wasn’t nearly as taxing as everyone made out.
That, of course, is always the moment the universe decides to teach you a lesson. From the far side of the bridge, the trail changed character entirely, becoming rockier, rootier and considerably steeper, the sort of path that seems to have been designed by someone with a grudge against knees. Being downhill first meant, obviously, that all of it would eventually have to be climbed back up again, a fact I chose not to dwell on too heavily at the time.
🥾 Off-Trail and Into the Undergrowth
The system here reminded me very much of our gorilla trekking days in Uganda, where experienced trackers would head out at dawn ahead of the tourist groups to locate the gorilla families, then radio back so the guides walking with the visitors knew roughly where to hack their way to, machetes and all.
Ranomafana worked along similar lines. After about twenty minutes of steady, uphill slog, Harry’s radio crackled with word from Andry, and off we went, leaving the relative civilisation of the marked trail behind and plunging directly into the forest itself. The mountainside here was properly steep, and keeping your footing meant grabbing hold of whatever happened to be within reach, which in a rainforest is a slightly alarming lottery, given that not everything growing in a Madagascan forest necessarily wants to be grabbed. The ground itself was slick and treacherous, laced with tree roots and looping liana vines that seemed placed with the specific intention of catching an ankle.
It was, in all honesty, hard graft. But it was also, rather to my surprise, enormous fun, in the particular way that only slightly ridiculous physical challenges tend to be once you’re safely through them. Having our guides there to haul us over the trickiest bits made all the difference, and I was grateful more than once for a steadying hand exactly when I needed it.
All this scrambling and bushwhacking eventually delivered us to a greater bamboo lemur, the largest member of the bamboo lemur family, tipping the scales at around 2.5 kilograms, or five pounds in old money, which put it roughly in the same size bracket as a ring-tailed lemur. You would think a creature of that size would be easy enough to spot, but its dark colouring did an excellent job of disappearing into the gloom of the forest, and I count myself lucky to have seen it at all.
🏞️ A View, and a Very Welcome Sit Down
We rejoined the main trail and pressed on upward, and I will confess the uphill slog had, by this point, started to feel a good deal less charming than it had at the outset. Our reward, when it came, was a viewpoint where a gap in the canopy opened out across the rainforest and down into the valley below. It really was spectacular, the sort of view that makes you forget, briefly, about your aching calves and the fact that you’re sixty years old and rather out of practice at all this. It was also, thankfully, an excuse to stop moving for a few minutes before beginning the long business of heading back down.
🐒 The Sifaka: Show-offs of the Forest
On the way back along the main trail, Harry’s radio crackled again with news from Andry: there was a family of lemurs up ahead, and this time they turned out to be Milne-Edwards’ sifaka, among the largest of all lemur species. A grown male averages around 5.9 kilograms, roughly thirteen pounds, and with their striking black bodies and pale saddle-shaped patch of fur across the back, they are, mercifully, a good deal easier to spot against the green than anything else we’d seen that morning.
What really set them apart, though, was their sheer exuberance. Every other lemur we’d encountered had been content to sit quietly in a tree, getting on with its day and largely ignoring us. The sifaka, by contrast, were positively showing off, flinging themselves from branch to branch in great acrobatic leaps that looked far too casual for something that would have finished me off entirely. It was the highlight of the walk, watching these things sail through the canopy with a confidence I have never once felt on solid ground, let alone forty feet up in a tree.
By then, tired, satisfied and more than ready for a sit-down that didn’t involve tree roots, we turned our legs back toward the park entrance, well pleased with what the forest had shown us.
🤔 Reflections
Looking back on it, Ranomafana struck me as one of those places that rewards you in direct proportion to the effort you put in, which is either a charming metaphor for life or simply an accurate description of a very steep hill, depending on your mood. Unlike some of the more heavily trodden wildlife spots I’ve visited over the years, there was something rather special about a forest that didn’t feel entirely worn smooth by tourism, where the guides still had to work, genuinely work, to find you something to look at.
I came away with a great deal of respect for Dr Patricia Wright and the researchers who’ve made Ranomafana their life’s work, squinting into this dense, dripping green world year after year in the hope of spotting something new. I also came away with a fresh appreciation for my own limitations, several new aches in places I didn’t know could ache, and precisely one usable photograph out of about forty attempts. But I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, and if you ever find yourself in southeastern Madagascar with a reasonably functioning pair of knees, I’d say go. Just perhaps do a few more stairs before you do.
About Ranomafana National Park
Built in 1991 and designated as a UNESCO World Heritage Site, this park spans 161 square miles of dense forests. This park is most known for being the location in which Dr Patricia Wright discovered the Golden Bamboo Lemur. In total, there are 12 species to be found.
While most visitors come for the Lemurs, you’ll also see over 130 species of frogs, 30 species of birds, 8 species of bats, and 7 species of tenrecs, among others.
Expect to see native birds such as the Crested Ibis, Mesites, Velvet Asitys, Rufous-Headed Ground Rollers, and Henst’s Goshawks. Reptiles also freely roam Ranomafana park; 62 species include Snakes, Leaf-Tailed Geckos, and Chameleons.
As the park is largely a forest, you’ll see many types of fauna and flora, many used by the local Tantala and Betsileo as medicine. In addition to the plants and animals, a hike takes you by and over many streams, which feed into the Namorana River.
There are 7 different trails on which you can explore the park, but we’ll highlight the 5 most popular. if you have time, we suggest the multi-day hikes, as they are less crowded; the dry season is short (as we stated above), so the day hikes tend to be fairly crowded.
The Best Time to Visit Madagascar
🌴 Best Time to Visit Madagascar by Season
Madagascar’s climate is shaped by its size, topography, and position in the southern hemisphere, meaning seasons vary significantly between the east coast, west coast, and central highlands. Understanding these regional differences is key to planning the ideal trip.
☀️ The Dry Season: May to October
The dry season is widely regarded as the best time to visit Madagascar for most travellers. Running from May through to October, this period brings clear skies, lower humidity, and cooler temperatures that make exploring rainforests, national parks, and coastal areas far more comfortable.
May and June mark the start of the dry season and are particularly pleasant — temperatures are mild, the landscape is lush from the preceding rains, and crowds remain relatively manageable. By July and August, which coincide with European school holidays, visitor numbers peak, especially in popular destinations such as Nosy Be, Isalo National Park, and the Avenue of the Baobabs. These months offer superb wildlife watching: lemur activity is high, baobab sunsets are spectacular, and humpback whale viewing off the west and south-west coasts reaches its prime between July and September.
September and October round out the dry season beautifully. The heat begins to build towards October, particularly in the south and west, but conditions remain ideal for trekking, diving, and exploring the spiny desert. Wildlife remains active, and orchid blooms begin to emerge in the highland areas.
On the east coast, the dry season offers relief from the region’s typically high rainfall, though brief showers can still occur. This is one of the best windows for visiting Masoala Peninsula and Ranomafana National Park without the risk of prolonged downpours.
What to pack: Lightweight long-sleeved shirts, breathable trousers, a light fleece or layer for highland evenings, waterproof hiking boots, wide-brimmed hat, high-SPF sunscreen, insect repellent with DEET, polarised sunglasses, a reusable water bottle, and binoculars for wildlife spotting.
🌧️ The Wet Season: November to April
The wet season runs from November to April and brings heavy rainfall, high humidity, and cyclone risk — particularly along the north and east coasts. While this period is not generally recommended for first-time visitors or those seeking comfortable overland travel, it has its own rewards for the prepared and adventurous traveller.
November sees the gradual return of rains, though the first weeks can still offer bright spells, especially in the west and south. Temperatures climb sharply, and the landscape begins to transform dramatically as vegetation bursts into life. For wildlife enthusiasts, November and December are remarkable months — chameleons, frogs, and insects are at their most abundant and active, and newly born lemur young cling to their mothers in the forest.
December through February marks the height of the wet season. Rainfall is heaviest on the east coast and in the north. Cyclones are a genuine risk from January to March, and some roads — particularly in remote areas — become impassable. Many lodges and camps in the north close or reduce services during this period. However, the west and south remain drier and more accessible than the rest of the island, meaning destinations such as Tulear, Ifaty, and Morondava can still offer rewarding visits.
March and April see rainfall begin to ease, though conditions remain warm and humid. April in particular is a transitional month — a preview of the dry season to come — and can offer excellent birding as migratory species begin to depart.
What to pack: Quick-dry clothing, a packable waterproof jacket, waterproof trousers or over-trousers, waterproof dry bags for electronics and documents, rubber-soled sandals or waterproof trail shoes, insect repellent, anti-malarial medication (consult a travel health clinic), oral rehydration salts, a lightweight compact umbrella, and extra sealable plastic bags for camera protection.
🌸 Shoulder Seasons: April to May and October to November
The shoulder months sit on either side of the dry season and represent excellent windows for those seeking to avoid the peak-season crowds whilst still enjoying largely favourable conditions.
April to May offers the transition from wet to dry, with the landscape at its greenest and most dramatic. Roads are clearing, lodges are reopening, and wildlife remains active following the breeding season. This is one of the finest periods for birdwatching, as resident species are in full breeding plumage and the last migratory visitors linger before departing.
October to November is similarly rewarding. The dry season’s lingering calm combines with the first bursts of new growth, and many animals are engaged in pre-breeding activity. The whale-watching season is drawing to a close, but lemurs, chameleons, and reptiles are particularly visible. Temperatures are warm but not yet oppressively hot, and the south and west are especially appealing.
Accommodation availability is generally better during shoulder months, and prices are often lower than at the July–August peak. Roads are in reasonable condition, and most national parks and reserves are fully operational.
What to pack (April–May): Layers for variable temperatures, light rain jacket, hiking boots with grip for muddy trails, quick-dry clothing, insect repellent, sunscreen, a wide hat, and a compact umbrella for lingering showers. What to pack (Oct–Nov): Light breathable clothing, sun protection, reef-safe sunscreen if visiting coastal areas, insect repellent, a light cardigan for highland evenings, and a dry bag for boat excursions or early whale-watching trips.
🐋 Wildlife and Regional Highlights by Season
Madagascar’s wildlife calendar adds another layer to seasonal planning. Humpback whales migrate through Sainte Marie and the south-west coast from July to September, making these months unmissable for marine enthusiasts. Lemur species such as the indri and sifaka are best observed from May to October when their territorial calls echo most frequently through the forest. Chameleons and frogs, by contrast, are far easier to find during the wet season from November to April when they are breeding and highly active.
The south and west — including Isalo, the Tsingy de Bemaraha, and the Avenue of the Baobabs — are at their finest in the dry season. The east coast and its rainforests, including Masoala and Ranomafana, are accessible year-round but are most manageable from May to October. The highlands around Andasibe and Fianarantsoa offer rewarding visits throughout the dry season, with pleasantly cool evenings that make them a refreshing contrast to the coastal heat.
🌟 Overall Best Time to Visit Madagascar
If there is one window that stands above all others, it is July to September. The dry season is in full effect, rainfall is at its lowest, and the island’s finest experiences converge: humpback whales breach off the west coast, lemurs call across national parks full of crisp highland air, and the Avenue of the Baobabs glows at dusk under cloudless skies. Temperatures are cooler than much of the year — particularly refreshing in the highlands — and infrastructure is fully operational. For those who find July and August too busy or expensive, June and September offer almost identical conditions with noticeably fewer crowds. Travellers seeking great value, lush scenery, and exceptional wildlife who are willing to accept some unpredictability will find April and May a compelling alternative — the shoulder season at its best. Madagascar rewards careful planning, and whatever time of year you visit, it remains one of the world’s most extraordinary destinations.
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